Stoned
by LuvEwan
Summary: On a monumental occasion, Obi-Wan hesitates. An Obi-WanAnakin drama (featuring Qui-Gon)
1. Part One

****

Stoned _or _A Rocky Start

By LuvEwan

__

On a monumental occasion, Obi-Wan hesitates.

PG

__

Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn

Disclaimer: Not mine. 

****

~~~)(~~~

__

Coward.

The word hisses like a sharp, cold breeze in my ear. 

Nearing the final steps of this new pinnacle, with endless sky and potential stretching out above me, I only seem to see the clouds. Gray tendrils coiling around the mountaintops, snaking up my arms and around my throat. 

I can't breathe. 

But I _can _move. Movement was required to rise quietly from my bed, walk from the berth I share with Anakin, then, with more briskness, wind down the halls…rush at a dead run to the remote viewing room of the transport ship—

Where I now stand, sweat clinging to my forehead and face. To flee our quarters was but a small excursion…it was my overworked mind that must have produced this relentless perspiration. 

__

Coward. 

I don't argue. Enough of my strength has been drained away. I can't spare any more, fighting a truth that doesn't bother to masquerade in niceties or euphemisms. It stings to hear so bald an accusation, but I refuse to spread salve, my own delusions, over the wounds. I know it is fear that fueled me, as I sprinted down the silent corridors. Pure dread that caused me to throw up intense shielding against my apprentice, such as I never have before. 

I've had time to prepare for this. Gods, when you get down to it, I've had a decade—that was when I carved this, this tiny, smooth bead I hold between my fingers. Usually, these type of ornaments should be plain-colored, yellow, blue or red. 

But it has always been my plan for the first, the milestone bead for my student, to be unique. It had never occurred to me, before that day in the meadow, that I would ever even have a Padawan. To instruct, to guide, to care for. 

It wasn't until I sat beside my Master at the small, clear lake that I believed it was possible to, one day, be something like him. Not in noble character-I never delved _that _far into fantasy-but in station. Another thanks owed to him, another I can never repay.

__

The others had scattered after the game, heading towards the showers or meal hall. My hair was dripping wet, which meant it was standing at odd angles atop my head, thanks to the distinct apprentice style worn by all novice Jedi. The grassy fields of the Narlanian training grounds were deserted, save myself and my Master. Fading echoes from the sun spread over every leaf and blade, in a warm wave of orange tinged with outlying scarlet. Night was approaching; my eyes were heavy after hours of rigorous sport, and all my thoughts were focused on a sweet collapse on a soft bed. 

But the commanding majority of my mind-my duty to my mentor-steered me from the homeward path to the shallow reflecting pond, past the hills.

Qui-Gon's face was captured in the jeweled surface, his eyes and nose and mouth rippled gently. When I saw my own, less elegant countenance, I turned away, toward him. He was sitting, his legs crossed and his arms drawn around them, pulled against his broad chest. He hadn't participated in the last rounds of the game, but encouraged me to. I knew he was looking for a chance to be alone (he was a brooder, that can't be denied) so I didn't ask if he wanted me to join him. 

"Master, evening meal will begin shortly." As the words left my lips, I cringed inside. Wouldn't a seasoned Jedi Master be aware of the mealtimes? 

Qui-Gon glanced up. The gleam of the setting sun caught in his eyes and a half-smile touched his lips. "Then I suppose that means we still have a bit of time left, doesn't it?"

I nodded carefully, the way I did whenever I thought he was projecting some secret meaning I didn't comprehend. 

"Sit." He offered, patting the grass beside him.

I sat, and emulated his position, my knees near my neck. 

He was quiet for a moment, studying the glittering water with a thoughtful expression. One of his favorite techniques, it seemed to me (and does to this day) was when he tried the patience of his young charge by saying nothing at all. After a few minutes of silence, it could become needling, and the most foolish statements seemed paramount, as long as they would fill the emptiness. In my first months and years as an apprentice, I often failed his tests. 

I was sixteen by this time, and knew how to hold my tongue.

"You know, I've only been to the Narlanian Temple three times before." He commented, his eyes gradually moving from the shifting water to my face. 

I was tempted to think HE was reduced to small talk, that I had finally won this little exam—but I knew him too well. Qui-Gon often worked off a tangent, pulling a strong moral from a vaguely connected story, and I didn't doubt he would reach some sort of point. 

"I came here with my previous two apprentices, and once when I was an apprentice myself. That was a long time ago—as you can imagine—"

I smiled.

"Those weren't even there yet." He pointed to a pair of buildings that stemmed from the main Temple, then sighed heavily. "Master Dooku and I were sent here after an especially harrowing mission. He denied the need for vacation, of course. He would rather have spent the time pursuing more serious, worthwhile interests." There was a pale note of sourness in his tone, barely audible. "I was a little older than you, and we sat here. He didn't say much, he never did, but what he DID say has stayed with me ever since. 

"He told me to keep faith in my abilities. He told me that self-doubt could never be a pillar of prosperity or power, that it would be a weapon used against me." Qui-Gon paused long enough to straighten my braid, laying it over my shoulder and brushing out the ends. "He told me that nothing could truly guarantee my spot in the Knighthood, but that if I didn't believe I was capable, it would guarantee my failure. And then…" He swallowed." He assured me that he, for one, believed I was capable. 

"I know you're not well-acquainted with Master Dooku, but a veritable compliment from him was hard-won. The fact that he voiced his confidence in me was astounding. Every Padawan is unsure of their skills, every Padawan regards Knighthood as something of a dream for most of their apprenticeship. To be told that that dream was a reality…I can't explain. It gave me confidence for the rest of my training. Sometimes, it still does. Whatever the state between us now, I will always be grateful to my Master for that.

"And I want you to be able to feel the same, from this day forward." He rested a hand on my knee. "This isn't an act of obligatory tradition, Obi-Wan. I want you to know that. I say this…because I deeply believe it." With his free fingers, he cupped my chin. "I believe that you will be an amazing Knight. And when you think you have no faith in yourself, know that I _have faith in you. I have faith that you'll grow to be an incredible Jedi, and later on, an incredible Master."_

Qui-Gon said he could not rightly explain the feeling of ultimate acceptance from his Master. I was no different. To this day, I can't put into words the euphoria of that moment. 

And after he said it, I couldn't muster a single syllable. I just stared at him, totally unblinking, unseeing.

His fingers fell away. "I'll save you a seat inside." He murmured.

I nodded numbly, and heard him, very distantly, tread the grasses up to the Temple.

I sat at the fringe of the lake until the sun descended beneath the horizon. The moonlight pooled on a stone near my foot, and I grabbed the small, craggy thing in my hand. In the fields, it was cooling to an uncomfortable degree, and the lights of the Temple were beckoning me to shelter, to food and rest, which had so recently been foremost in my mind. 

I rose, slipping the stone into my pocket. I didn't know what I would do with it, another rock from another occasion was already against my heart, but I needed to have a memento from that day. 

A few weeks later, I sat on my bed in my quarters, and patiently carved a bead from the rock, smoothing out the jags and revealing veins of warm red, brown and blue. 

I didn't know if I would really be the impressive teacher my Master thought I would, but I had a start.

My apprentice would not have the 'average' first bead woven into his braid. 

But, as with most things, my belief in that has been called into question. 

I know Anakin deserves it. He saved my life-and the lives of many others-on the Pramilx moon. A release of toxic fumes overwhelmed me and the innocents I sought to protect. I have no recollection of what happened between then and when I woke on a cot in the medical bay, but from the deep gashes on his face, I could easily discern that my apprentice had endured an ordeal to rescue me and those under my charge. 

He's only one boy, still young enough to giggle at a comically twisted face (or pout during a less-than-exciting assignment)…but he was strong enough to drag every last leaden, limp body out of danger. 

He didn't panic. He didn't concern himself with his own safety, nor was he reckless.

I could not ask for a better reason to give him the bead. 

So why when I pulled the precious stone from my belt, and Anakin's name was at my lips, did I stop? Why did I look at the slumbering face of my Padawan—and feel a deep, visceral pang of disappointment? 

Why would this place, this cramped little room with nothing but a window and bench, be a solace? 

I look down at the bead, cool and familiar against my touch. Sometimes…it almost reminds me of my river rock. While they aren't similar in appearance, I've always liked to think (especially in the last year) that a piece of my Master's essence is carried in the beautiful minerals and pure sheen. Gazing at the small treasure is akin to hearing his words again, knowing that his confidence in me was unwavering…

I had his undeviating faith, until that assuredness was crushed, and the bead might as well have been a dull hunk of grit. New words entered my head, _his_ words, his declarations of Anakin's tremendous talents.

The Force is meant to be an immaculate presence in the mind, light and white and doubtless…how does a Jedi guard against intrusions of emotions, green seeping into white, a total loss of conviction? 

He does the best he can.

He is patient, and waits for his reactions to weaken, waits for the day to come when his thoughts are no longer tainted by old memory. 

He _patiently waits _until he does not regard his student with envy or resentment. With an inward calm, he anticipates a tomorrow when he does not hear the whisper through him, the small voice that tells him everything is wrong.

I _do not_ hate Anakin. On the contrary, I have loved him as though he were my child. 

Staring out the window, into empty, aching space, I wonder: Does that make it worse? 

Am I a failure not only as a teacher, but as a person, that I stand here clutching the bead, clutching tight, as though it was in peril of being stolen? 

And does that mean _Qui-Gon _was a failure, to raise such an ineffective, petty apprentice? 

I have to blink hard, and lean against the window pane. 

It can be too much, when you have too little to offer. 

****

~~~)(~~~

Space has no concept of time. Once the limits of a planet's atmosphere have been broken through, and you're hurdling through the stars, it is a single, perpetual hour, neither morning nor night. It is the internal clock of the body that must take up the slack, tell us when to rest and when to rise. 

A clock that has stopped, or at least malfunctioned, within me. 

I've never been ruled by weariness. I find that, as my life matures, I can function quite well without sleep. In a state of cognizance, it is far more difficult to allow dreams entry into the mind. 

And while I'm safe from the unpredictable reveries of slumber, I cannot be totally shielded from my own musings…a fact that causes me to wonder which is the more disturbing to endure. 

Perhaps, if I _did _return to my bed , I would be saved further agony from these wrenching deliberations. Or, they would follow me to the dredges of unconsciousness, to take a twisted form, and haunt me still. 

Either way, the problem persists, the bead burns in my hand and in my pocket. Sizzles and crackles against flesh, like the flames of a funeral pyre—bits of nightmare have transgressed to reality, I feel, as I seal my eyes against the wild rush of memory. Recollections branded into the tender places of my heart that resist every attempt at healing. 

Because _I _refuse to let them mend. 

It would be wrong.

To not experience the pain…it would be acceptance of premature, unjust death. 

Just as weaving the bead into Anakin's braid would be? 

No.

__

Nooo. 

I turn from the wide viewing window, a clammy hand straying to my temple. 

Anakin's advancement as a pupil of the Jedi Order is a separate subject _entirely_. That he is _my _pupil is of no consequence. 

My pupil, out of involuntary forfeit. 

My pupil, because his real teacher was murdered…

His teacher, who had been mine.

The teacher, that saw him suddenly and was blinded by brilliance. Blinded to me. Made me promise, with the dying breath that lives forever on, to train the person that had so recently transformed me into a weak shadow. 

He was _not_ meant to leave. Not then, not from the abrupt plunge of a sinister weapon, an evil imitation of the weapon that had been the center of his Jedi life. His legend was meant to include Anakin…training the Chosen One was supposed to be his divine avenue to immortality. 

But Anakin's first bead is enclosed in _my_ fingers.

Whenever the ritual words are recited, Qui-Gon will be silent.

How can my voice fill that void? 

Simply put, it cannot. 

I've known it all along, I think. In the moments when my lips are numb or a lump is lodged in my throat, and I can't produce a sound. 

In the quiet, I know. In the quiet, the truth screams. And while it is deafening, I will always hear it again, untarnished to my ears. 

****

~~~)(~~~

More coming soon…


	2. Part Two

****

Carmen Thanks so much! **Athena Leigh** It's pretty sweet to write them too! Thanks. 

~~~)(~~~

This is ridiculous.

I am a Jedi Knight, not a child engaged in his own personal little tantrum, on the floor of my mind, kicking and throwing up my fists. 

Everyone has their excuses for what they are hesitant to do, and as we are taught in the Temple, such hindrances should be mowed down like willowy weeds. 

Yes. I will be galvanized. I will push aside the thorny brush that has invaded this path, and if my fingers bleed, I will cherish the scars. 

It is what my Master would have wanted. 

Next to him, what do _I _know of the will of the Force? 

I feel a warmth rush to my face. For all the times I have imparted my 'wisdom', my opinions and guidance to Anakin—if only he knew how I doubt every word. What would he think of me then, a man who teaches the very things he mistrusts? 

Would he even want this silly bead, grasped in the sweaty palm of a trembling hand? 

I can imagine his disgust, if he ever learned just how much he lost when Qui-Gon passed from one world into another. 

And, worse, how would he react if he knew that I am withholding an honor from _him_, as though I were superior, and looping the bead into his braid would be sullying it. 

I wish…I wish he knew that I would give life and limb to set this right, to step outside of this cramped prison and be freed of its aged shackles. 

I've been pacing, I realize, and move slowly to the bench. I lower myself to the slick cushion and rest my head against the back. 

If I close my eyes, maybe…

"Master?"

I hear the small voice, and my natural reaction is to jump to my feet…but I only lift my head, very calmly, and slip the bead into a pocket. 

Anakin is standing in his sleep clothes, framed by the doorway, a troubled expression marking his young face.

I should've been quieter, or shielded better. Anything that would have prevented the melancholy sheen over his eyes. "Padawan? What are you doing awake at this hour?"

He shrugs. "That's what I was gonna ask you."

I manage to smile. "I'm sorry that I disturbed you. I know you need your sleep, especially after the mission you've had."

He sits beside me, his feet dangling a few inches off the ground, the bare toes curling and uncurling.

Funny. I used to do that. 

"I wasn't sleeping too great either." He quirks his mouth to the side. "Don't you need your sleep too?"

I hear his concern, feel it like a dulled knife twisting in my gut. "Masters are world-famous insomniacs, didn't you know?"

He smiles.

My forehead creases. "You _do _know what an insomniac is, don't you?"

"_Yeees, _Master." He rolls his eyes. "My mom used to call me one all the time."

"Oh." I fold my hands in my lap, and glance out the window. A mentioning of her never fails to bring a strange static to our bond. However brief, it still alarms me, and renews my belief that Jedi initiates should _not_ be acquainted with their birth parents.

If I knew my own mother, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from talking about her either. No matter how much it pained me.

"This ship's a yawn." Anakin observes, leaning his chin into the heel of a small hand. "The pilot wouldn't even let me in the cockpit. He's a—"

"Anakin." There's an edge of rebuke in my voice. "We must respect his wishes."

"I know." He blows out a breath. "If I had my own ship, I'd let _anyone _go in the cockpit. I'd never be mean like _him_."

"I'm sure you wouldn't." I ruffle his sleep-tousled hair. "But maybe he's just protecting his property against little ruffians that would hit the wrong button and send the ship careening towards innocent bystanders, _including _one very innocent Jedi Master—"

"Alright!" He interrupts with a tugging, mischievous grin. "It happened that _one time _and you never let me forget it."

"That's right. _Never._" I smile, half-hoping the sentiment will reach my heart—and become real again. "How else would I able to torture you?"

"I don't know." He giggles. "Get creative…Give me all the desserts I want."

I cock an eyebrow. "How is _that_ torturous?"

"Maybe I'll get a stomach ache?"

"_Ugh_. You _are _a stomach ache."

Where moments before there was merely quiet, his light, bright laughter fills the viewing room. 

****

~~~)(~~~

More to come…


	3. Part Three

****

Athena Leigh Thank you! I was worried about the title at first, so thanks doubly! 

Where moments before there was merely quiet, his light, bright laughter fills the viewing room. 

And I have to wonder how I find reason to be distressed by this grinning child.

__

'The boy is dangerous. They all sense it. Why can't you?'

Perhaps they were hastily spoken, those words on the landing platform. It was difficult to function in a whirlwind, with so many constants in upheaval, and the plumes of exhaust rising hot in the air. 

Could I have been speaking not out of concern for Anakin-or even the Jedi's behalf—but for my own, selfish motives? 

Did I look at Anakin, a mere child, saved from the toil of slavery, and see only the ramifications his freedom, his Jedi training, would have on _me_? Is _that _why I could sense such patent sadness roil through my connection with Qui-Gon, as we stood facing one another, like two friends who abruptly cannot understand or recognize their camaraderie?

Did he, in all his wisdom and capacity, detect the sins that I have only discovered this night? 

And when he confided in me his certainty that I would be a great Jedi Knight, was he already aware of what fate would deal him, in the terrible battle that would follow? Were his endearments an empty attempt at assuagement—a final reprieve so that I might not remember him, or regard Anakin, with resentment? 

What if this path we walk is rife with false stones, riddled with ash and the ghosts of lies once spoken? Is this bead to bring the moment when our steps press a little too hard, and shatter the fragile road? 

"Master?"

A small quake in my stomach. For all the sweetness in his voice, it can be an unsettling sound. "Yes?" I force myself to look at his rounded face.

"Do you remember anything that happened that day?"

I frown. Countless shards of my life, since he was brought into it, glint in my mental vision, each threatening in different ways. "What day?"

He stares at me, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity no one else—not even my Master-has been able to rival. "That day on the Pramilx moon." He clarifies softly.

"Oh." And for once, I can answer with total honesty. "No. No I don't, Anakin."

"I didn't think so." He plays with his thumbs, head down. 

"Why?"

He shrugs. "I dunno."

I cross my arms, leaning forward to peek at his hidden face. "You obviously had a reason, or you wouldn't have asked."

He sighs and glances up at me, gnawing at his bottom lip. "Um, when I found you, you were yelling."

"I was yelling?"

He nods. "You were yelling my name, over and over."

I shake my head, bewildered. "No, Anakin. The gas knocked me-it knocked everyone-unconscious. I couldn't have been yelling."

"But you were." He persists, the tiniest stirrings of frustration creasing his forehead. "You _were _yelling. I heard you. You were telling me to be careful. I couldn't see through the smoke, but I know what I heard."

Despite his insistences, I can't believe it. The gasses used were later identified as incredibly potent, and I was told there was no way we could have escaped them. Anakin was able to perform his rescue because enough time had passed to allow air circulation to weaken the effectiveness of the fumed poison, and he further dispersed it by throwing open the doors and windows. 

My chest constricts as I realize, yet again, the magnitude of the miracle my Padawan accomplished. If not for him, innocents would have breathed their final, tainted breaths on Pramilx –and I would have, as well.

I _am _grateful that Anakin saved my life.

I am.

I will not abide further contemplation of it.

"Padawan, you were nothing short of a hero that day."

This earns me an earnest smile.

"But you know the details of the gasses that were employed. I was, well, out cold, and incapable of providing you a warning of any kind."

Anakin pulls his knees up against his chest. For a short span of time, he is uncharacteristically quiet, staring out at the neon firework of hyperspace. "Master Qui-Gon can talk to me." He moves sobered eyes to my face. "I can hear him, even though…Even though I can't see him."

I have to look away briefly. "Anakin—"

"I know you don't think I can." His soft, slightly accusing voice is a scrape against my soul, more than grazing the heart within. "He tells me you won't let yourself believe it."

I can sense my body go completely still under an onslaught of unnamable despair. My only means of defense is denial—and I know it. "Master Qui-Gon is gone. It isn't a question of 'letting myself' believe he can somehow communicate with us. I saw him," I close my eyes and swallow, "I saw him…_pass_. And I've never—"

"Then _how _do _I_ hear him?" He asks, pitch rising, almost echoing in the silent bowels of the ship. 

I run cold fingers through my hair. "I don't know, Anakin. Maybe because you _want _to hear it."

That was a mistake. I recognized it the instant it was spoken, but there's no taking it back now. I can't erase the hard glint of pain in his young eyes. 

"I'm _not _imagining it."

Suddenly unbearably tired, I press my face into my hands. "That's not what I meant—"

"I'm _not _making it up, Master."

In the smothering darkness of my palms, it's easier to disagree with him. "I know you're not making it up, young one. But if you badly wanted to believe it—"

"He told me he misses you." He says bluntly.

__

No no no. I sit upright, and take a steady breath. "Anakin, I will _not _listen to this. It has nothing to do with Pramilx. It has nothing to do with _anything._"

"But it does! I can hear Master Qui-Gon, even though he's dead-"

"Anakin!"

"And I could hear _you _that day, yelling to me. I heard it ringing in my ears, and I heard it through our bond." He reaches out and, to my surprise, grasps my hand as though I would be sent spiraling down a cliff if he let go or even loosened his hold. 

I flinch inwardly, and want very much to pull away. But I've already hurt him more than I can endure, so instead, I wrap my fingers around his, and wish fervently, silently, that this subject will just drop.

In too many ways, my levels of tolerance have been threatened tonight.

"You told me to be careful. That you wouldn't be able to stand it if something happened to me. You—You wanted me to stay away from the building you were in."

Once again, I'm confounded by his words. I have not even a residual recollection of any of it. Gently, "Anakin, I don't…"

"But I _do_, Master. I know I heard you…because it took a lot for me to disobey what you said. I knew I wasn't supposed to go against a direct order from you." A single droplet gleams at the edge of a blonde eyelash, and I can hardly brook the agony that results from that heartbreaking image. "But, in my mind, I didn't have a choice. I felt all this…open emotion from you, and I couldn't just stand by and…"

He is unable to continue.

A fact for which I'm thankful, because I _can't_ take anymore. 

Emotion? What emotion?

A sense of duty? Obligation? Responsibility to the Order, and to my Master?

What else can there be? I have trekked the bitter wilderness of my soul these few hours, and I hold no more illusions. 

I glance at him over my shoulder, and pray he'll know how much I regret.

"My mom used to say you could tell if someone loved you, because you'd be able to feel it, like a warmth inside you. I always felt it around her. And when I met Padme…" A faint blush appears on his cheeks. "And Master Qui-Gon, I felt it a little. But I barely got to know either of them. 

"When I heard you yelling to me on Pramilx, I felt it. Stronger than I've ever felt it since I left Tatooine." He shakes his head. "You can't imagine something like that. I don't care if you were unconscious. You can dream, can't you? So how do you know you can't do more?"

I expect to drown in the current of what he has told me, but I find that I'm numb, and can't feel the small hand enclosed in mine. 

"I-Is Master Qui-Gon proud of you?" 

He slowly nods. "Yeah. He says I'm doing great."

I nod in reply, then wet my lips. "Anakin, why don't you go back to our cabin, and try to get some sleep? I'll join you in a moment."

He hesitates, ever-attentive to detail. "Are you okay, Master?"

"I'm fine." I usher a smile from the dark drafts and trembling candlelight of my spirit, so he will believe it, and be at peace. 

"Okay." He half-hops off the bench, walks to the door, then wheels around on his heel. "Master?"

I clear my throat. "Yes?"

"He's proud of you too."

****

)(

My Master once told me, as we settled down for sleep on a transport ship, that I had one of the most organized minds he had ever encountered. It was after a difficult mission, during which we salvaged the lives of an entire village, including children. We survived by the skin of our teeth, and afterward nursed quite a few bruises on the beaten skin of our bodies. 

The day we were preparing to depart, an elder regarded as a sage stopped us as we were cinching our travel packs. 

His considerable years had left his voice not much more than a croak, but my Master heard every word. 

The man said that once, he had taken ill with a ravaging disease, and actually died for a few tense moments before he was resuscitated. He described the moment he felt himself separate from his earthly form, and saw the faces of angels, glowing with a pure, beautiful luster. It lasted only fleetingly, for he was quickly brought back to life, but he never forgot the precious seconds he spent in the company of the luminescent spirits. 

New decades had brought serious problems to his homeworld, and the blessed memory began to fade in the midst of violence and political unrest. 

But, he told my Master, gripping his arm with liver-spotted fingers, his faith was restored by the appearance of the Jedi. 

He said he was astounded, and utterly rapturous, to learn that some angels had chosen to walk the grounds of the Universe.

Qui-Gon was ever-gracious, thanking the man while concurrently denying the enormous claim. 

The man shook his head. He contended that he had seen the light surrounding us only once before, and _never _mistook it for something less remarkable.

Later, in the privacy of our little on-ship quarters, I mentioned that the people of the quaint village must have undergone tremendous hardship, for their wisest member to genuinely believe the presence of angels.

__

Qui-Gon rolled onto his side, so that he faced me. In the darkness, I could barely make out the regal composition of his face, but his eyes shone clearly. As they always did. "Why do you say that, Padawan?"

I hadn't expected my comment to be questioned. Immediately, I felt—stupid. "Well, believing in another, higher state of existence is one thing. But thinking that the two would intersect is…"

"Silly?" He offered.

"NO._" I fought the heat surfacing on my face. "But it's…It's stretching it, I guess."_

"You don't believe that elements of the afterlife could touch the living? Touch someone like that man?"

I closed my eyes. It wasn't uncommon to feel very small when your views were challenged by a man as intelligent and seasoned as Qui-Gon Jinn. "For me, _it's a stretch."_

His tone was uncritical, almost tender. "Have you seen so much, my apprentice, that you can't _believe such things?"_

"I don't…I don't know, Master. When I look inside myself, I don't feel that kind of faith." I stared at the ceiling. "What does that mean? What does that make me?"

I felt my sleepcouch pressed down by his weight. He sat beside me and gazed down with a slight smile. "There's nothing 'wrong' with you, if that's what you're concerned about, Obi-Wan. Not everyone can easily accept those things which are unusual, or unexplainable. Your mind is orderly, more so than most. As a Jedi, it needs to be. Perhaps you'll change a bit, as you grow older. Or maybe you'll stay the little cynic that you are." He poked my cheek. 

I smiled. "Do you believe?"

"I think that the Universe is colored by more than black and white. Gray is everywhere, Padawan. Hells," He chuckled, "It'll even be in your hair one day." He invited me to look at the streaks that ran through his mostly chestnut mane. 

"Don't be ashamed of your sensibility. It's one of your most admirable qualities." A spark lit his eyes, and I wanted very much to think it was caused, even partially, from me. "When you give your faith to something, you give it wholly, Obi-Wan."

He smiled again and leaned in close, to whisper the last in my ear. "So make sure it's something worth believing."

I don't think my Master would consider my mind to be the epitome of tidiness and structure anymore. Voices swarm my thoughts, and only one of them is my own.

He's proud of me?

That's what Anakin said. But to accept the sentiment—

How can angels converse with the living? It is beyond the realms of rationality. It is a sweet notion of stardust and crystalline wings—

And does not involve feeling a body cool under your hands, smelling the burnt flesh of a fatal wound, all while attempting to swallow the bile churning in your throat.

I loved my Master with every fiber of my being. I would throw myself out the window right now, throw away all that I have worked for in life, if it would bring him back. 

But believing he is a ghost at our shoulders is _not _going to bring him back.

I _want_ to believe. I _want _to believe he is proud of me, and is proud of Anakin.

Certainly it's worth believing. 

But now, these years later, I _have _seen too much.

Besides, what would he say to me, if he could hear the deliberations of my psyche? _How _could he possibly be proud of me?

Would he be pleased if I came to believe it, really believe it…and was unable to handle it?

Anakin can handle it, so let him believe, for surely Qui-Gon _is _proud of the amazing strides the boy has taken. 

If it comforts my Padawan, then I'm glad. 

But I couldn't deal with—I don't deserve—that kind of comfort. 

I walk out of the dim room, my steps echoing in the hollow corridor. I know Anakin is still awake; I can hardly blame him. 

He'll be waiting for me to make things right, to straighten the wrinkles in the fabric of our bond and our hearts. 

To do so, must I take stock in his claims? Must I believe that I _do _love him to the incredible degree he says he felt on Pramilx?

What if I try, what if I embrace the idea, and am incapable of managing it?

I'm standing at the door to our cabin, wishing the sojourn from the viewing room would have taken longer. 

But I can't hesitate anymore. Anakin has probably already sensed my arrival. 

With a sigh, I enter. 

****

The next post will be the last . Thank you to those who are reading & reviewing!


	4. Part FourThe Conclusion

****

Fudge Thank you! **Athena Leigh** It was explored to some degree in the book 'Rogue Planet', and decided to elaborate, because it was a great, interesting idea. Thank you, as always, for your dedication and lovely reviews.

With a sigh, I enter.

His head snaps up. Sitting on the edge of his narrow sleepcouch, only slightly emerged from the shroud of the room's darkness, his back is bowed.

I notice with painful guilt that he hardly resembles the jumpy little sprite that sprinted through the Naboo starship, with an irrepressible spirit and unquenchable thirst for exploring the countless sources of curiosity that abound the vessel.

The burst of happiness he experienced when he departed from the viewing room has since ebbed.

I can guess why.

"You still don't believe me." He states morosely.

"Anakin…" I slouch beside him on the bed. "What do the Jedi teach about Difference of Perspective?"

The boy shrugs, his eyes staring at some unknown spot on the wall.

"_An_akin."

He huffs. "In conflict, to truly understand your own view, you must first understand the view of the other." It rolls from his tongue in the classic, unthinking recital of a Jedi student accustomed to such prompting from one teacher or another.

I nod my approval.

"But Obi-Wan," He draws out my name with a tinge of irritation, "Does _everything _have to be rooted in mantras and strict philosophy?"

I consider it for a moment. "Some situations cannot be solved solely through aged postulates. Take the Difference in Perspective: Usually, it's applied to a confrontation between adversaries.

"Now, am _I _your adversary? Am I your enemy, Padawan?"

"No. No, of course not. You could never be my enemy, Master."

I have to pause, as something comes unhinged within me, and new feeling pours through my aura like rain after a stagnant drought. _You could never be my enemy._

"So you see?" My voice cracks, thankfully just under the line of his perception, "Adjustments have to be made. You _know _how you feel, but you _can't _know how I feel. Whether or not I believe what you've heard and sensed, you will still believe it.

"But maybe your view of _me _would change if you knew something of how I must see all the things you've claimed….Do you know what I mean?"

He rubs his eyes, but nods.

"I know I didn't act the way I should have back there. I—I was completely wrong, Anakin. I snapped at you. That was totally unwarranted." I look at his open, painfully young face, and my stomach twists. "There isn't an excuse for my behavior. But you must understand.

"Master Qui-Gon was more to me than a teacher. Or even a mentor. He was the nexus of my existence. The only family I'd ever known. The only father I'll ever know. He was taken before I was ready…when _could _I have been ready?…and it was not in a natural way.

"Somebody _took_ my Master from me. And I watched it happen. It hurt, Anakin. It…It will never stop hurting." I tell him softly, afraid that I shouldn't have, for I've never let another soul glimpse this deep into mine. "So it's difficult for me to believe that he could come back, in any capacity."

I brace his shoulders with my hands, and am certain he is looking at me fully before I continue. "It isn't that I don't _want _to." I grapple unsteadily for a breath, to ward off the tightness in my throat. "But I can't. It isn't in me."

In a surge, he lunges forward and wraps his arms around me, hugging me close.

I'm taken aback, but gradually, I return the embrace, bringing my arms to encircle him, even resting my chin on the soft bristles of his head.

"But it _could be_, Master." He swears feverishly against my chest, against my heart. "It could be." He pulls back, tear tracks gleaming silver in the weak incandescence. "I could help you. Like how you always help me."

I feel a swell of moisture in my eyes. As with so much, I am powerless against it. I reach out, and with two fingertips, touch the short braid, from its start behind his ear to the plaited middle to the sandy, silken tail at the end.

"Without you, where would I be, Master?"

He sounds like he's speaking from far away, his message a foreign notion. _You mean without Qui-Gon where would you be?_

Anakin shakes his head. "_You _saved me. Nobody else believes in me the way _you _believe in me."

I'm startled by his reaction. It isn't often an apprentice, let alone one of his tender age, is able to penetrate the layers of a Master's shielding.

Even a Master who, when the recent past slips his mind, sometimes grabs for his own braid when the night grows cold.

"Anakin, your depth of compassion astounds me." And it does. "But some things cannot be created. If they're not there to begin with, nothing can be done to change that."

"_The Force_ is with you from the beginning. I could feel it even when I was on Tatooine, and didn't know what to call it. Master Qui-Gon speaks to me through the Force. He should speak to you, too. And he tries, Master."

He swallows and focuses keenly on me. Unafraid. "I think you do hear him. And I think you block him out."

Fresh tears spike like the nick of tiny, cold razors in my eyes. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you loved him. And it would make it hurt worse."

I seal my eyes and feel a shudder rush through me. Could he be right? Is the small part of me that argues with the rest, that fights the prevailing guilt and shame—could that be my Master?

Could that glimmer in the dark, that I'm so quick to smother, be Qui-Gon?

"And, maybe, you won't believe that I heard you on Pramilx because that would mean you loved me sort of like that." Anakin added quietly, unobtrusively. "Sort of the way you loved Qui-Gon."

I look away, my chest near to heaving. I never thought it would be possible. My heart has been full, with the memory of my Master, the endless agony of losing him.

How can it be that this child has made room? How could I have been unaware, all this time?

I thought my love for Anakin was forced, by circumstance, by duty—by fear.

But at this moment, I can't remember motive.

This affection hasn't sprouted from bitterly planted seeds.

It's real…_gods _it's real…

Anakin. Qui-Gon.

They're real. And, separately, I aimed to push them away.

"Master?"

I wipe briskly at my eyes, then turn to that tentative voice.

"I'm not leaving you. Nobody's gonna take me away from you."

I exhale in a half-sob, and actually smile. "I hope so, Padawan." It isn't right, for me to feel so out of control, so vulnerable, for the lines that design my mind to jag off course. I promised myself it would never happen, not after the cool, steel version of hell I found in the generator core.

He slowly moves his finger across my cheek, taking a drop of purged misery and utter relief with it. "My mom used to cry sometimes. When things got to be really bad. But it didn't scare me. It made me feel better, because I knew I wasn't the only one." He stops, his eyelids lowering slightly.

"I never saw you cry after Qui-Gon died."

Heat burns in my face.

He shakes his head. "But I don't cry about my mom anymore. Even though I still miss her. You just get to the point where it hurts, but it's a different kind of hurt."

I can't speak, can barely think, so I nod.

"I wish I could see her again. I wish I could talk to her, the way I can talk to Qui-Gon." He blinks, then gazes at me with bruised eyes. "I wish I had that chance. I wouldn't run from it."

There's an unspoken jealousy threaded through his tone. I want to be angry with him for it.

But I'm not. "Not everyone's as brave as you, my Padawan."

"Really?" He squeezes my limp hand. "Where d'you think I get it from? You can't say Qui-Gon this time."

"Your mother. Your own instincts."

"And you, Obi-Wan."

__

You want to be everything a Jedi embodies. But you want none of the credit that comes with it.

The thought springs up as though independent from me.

But Anakin…that wasn't Anakin.

More tears. I will them to retreat, to go back to where they came from, to that shaded chamber in my heart. I'm shivering, and I can't stop.

__

You're cold because you hold back the warmth.

As if to counteract the theory, I pull Anakin into an embrace, and bury my face in a small shoulder.

Did I imagine the spite, the envy? Was that my veil, to cover and protect myself from this intensity?

Would I, truly, have accepted the life of a child in my hands, if I ever experienced those emotions toward the child?

__

You know, my Obi-Wan.

I stiffen, and for an instant, I deny the rich baritone's authenticity. Maybe it's just the dizziness of the moment, a longing that has lived without fulfillment.

__

What more must I do, child? What more must we do to convince you? Walking through walls isn't really my style.

I gasp and tighten my arms around Anakin. In my mind enters a vision of the bead.

__

I'm with you, Obi-Wan. If only you would let yourself accept that, the night would not be so dark for either of you. Your dreams could hold more than tattooed faces.

"I…I can't…"

"You can."

It's a double encouragement, within my head and outside of it.

__

The bonds of Master and apprentice do not die simply because a Master does. Has your love died, my Padawan?

Weary beyond belief, I answer in the fashion of precious handfuls of years, when our connection transcended all else. _Never._

Then how can I ever leave you?

I open my eyes, and withdraw from Anakin.

Neither of us can claim indifference to what has passed. The effects are sorely evident on our damp faces.

I run my fingers through his hair. "My Padawan." I smile. "I'm tempted to bodily throw the captain off this ship, so that you can have your run of the cockpit."

He beams.

****

)(

The alarm is a series of short, shrill beeps.

I have not slept, and so I halt the nuisance before it can wake Anakin, who snores lightly, curled up on his side.

We're not quite home yet.

For which I'm fortunate. I need a minute more to prepare.

I sit up and breathe out, clearing my mind.

__

A little mess never hurts anyone.

I laugh inwardly. _But messes, even the little ones, have the habit of spreading._

I pull the stone bead from my pocket, and caress the surface. For the first time, it doesn't feel the same in my hands.

I glance at my slumbering apprentice.

__

It belongs to another.

And this thought is not only my Master's, but my own.

****

The End.


End file.
